


Diplomatic Relations

by hibernate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, Gift Fic, Insulting Ferelden (an Orlesian pastime), Mabari, Not a Dog Person, Secret Tomes of Thedas Exchange, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:36:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: Maker save her from Fereldans and their dogs.





	Diplomatic Relations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [commoncomitatus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/gifts).



> Thanks for the great prompts! Hope you enjoy this. <3

Do Fereldans, Vivienne wonders, go anywhere without their dogs?

Even their Queen is not exempt, apparently, followed as she strides through the corridors of Redcliffe Castle not only by a handful of guards, but also by a trotting beast nearly big enough to reach her hip.

"Good day, ser," the Queen says to Vivienne, though it is clear by her tone she means nothing of the sort. "I wish to speak to someone in charge of this... Inquisition."

She has cast the rebel mages out of Redcliffe, into the arms of the Inquisition, and Vivienne cannot tell if the situation has put the Queen in a poor mood, or if this is simply her natural disposition.

Inclining her head only as far as decorum demands — the Inquisition is a branch of the Chantry, which isn't beholden to any one nation — Vivienne says, "I'm afraid our leaders remain in Haven, your Majesty."

The dog by the Queen's feet growls. Perhaps it disapproves of her manners.

She has never met the Queen of Ferelden, or her dog, before, and she does not usually take much note of news from the south — at least not those which do not pertain to Kinloch Hold. She recalls with vivid clarity, however, the Empress's words all those years ago, years before the Blight and the Fereldan civil war. 

_Anora is a solitary rose among brambles._

The Queen is pretty, in a Fereldan sort of way, but still Vivienne cannot see what the Empress could possibly have meant. 

"Then I will speak to the dwarven woman," the Queen says, lifting her chin. "The one they call the Herald of Andraste. She seemed to speak for you, earlier."

"She sustained some injuries earlier. I'm sure she would be happy to see you when Enchanter Fiona has finished healing her."

The Queen glances over Vivienne's shoulder at her staff, which previously seemed to have escaped her notice. Face hardening, she pulls herself straighter, taller — though not as tall as Vivienne. "You are a mage."

Vivienne is not accustomed to people being ignorant as to who she is, but Ferelden is rather a backwater sort of place. She should expect nothing else. "Indeed," she says, offering nothing more.

"Your people have long since had my sympathy, but I will not abide such blatant disregard of my wishes, nor the endangerment of my people. I'll have your name, mage."

"You may refer to me as Madame de Fer, Your Majesty," she says, meeting the Queen's gaze with one no less hard. "And do not confuse me with the fools you granted refuge to on these grounds. I am here with the Inquisition."

It would be pointless to tell her that mages come in more than one shape. The many will always be judged by the actions of the few, and no one could blame the Queen of Ferelden for not being in a magnanimous mood, all things considered.

The Queen's beast, which has been studying her through-out the conversation with eerie, yellow eyes, abandons its mistress' side, taking a few threatening steps towards Vivienne. It's unlikely that the Queen would allow her beast to do harm here, without any threat against her, but even so, Vivienne calls forth her magic, letting it simmer under her skin, ready to be used.

Dogs in general are not to Vivienne's taste, and the Fereldan war dogs are uglier than most. She must make an effort to stand still when it comes closer, nose twitching as it lowers its head to her feet.

"Kindly remove your dog from my shoes," Vivienne says, keeping her magic in a tight grip.

The Queen makes no move to do so, smiling in a way that's not particularly kind. "She's clearly interested in something you've stepped in."

There is something about her eyes, a certain keenness, sharp and relentless. Even a queen of barbarians no doubts needs to possess a certain amount of cunning and drive. 

"Fereldan mud, one presumes," Vivienne says. "How quaint."

The Queen turns to leave, calling the dog back to her side with a snap of her fingers. "There's no better kind, Madame."

Maker save her from Fereldans and their dogs.

 

*

 

Even if Lady Montilyet was not such an utter delight, only a fool would make an enemy out of someone with her particular skill set. Vivienne makes a point of complying, when possible, to her ever gracious requests. In this case, it sees her in a carriage on the way to Denerim — a place she would have been perfectly content to never visit, but a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.

Commander Cullen, despite being born and bred on Fereldan soil, is less gracious about it.

"I would have done more good back at Skyhold," he grumbles, not for the first time, fidgeting on the seat and tugging on his collar.

"The two of you," Josephine gushes, "are a perfect symbol. Mages and Templars united under the Inquisition's banner towards a common cause."

Ignoring the jolting of the carriage, Vivienne gives Josephine her most gracious smile. "I'm ever at your disposal, Josephine, my dear."

"Besides," Josephine adds, "Leliana simply refused to come."

As is apparent from the moment they set out, the purpose of Vivienne and Commander Cullen's presence is primarily an ornamental one. They are not invited for the actual negotiating, rather left mostly to themselves, which means Vivienne is free to dedicate her time to her own business. She is no ambassador; her power, much like her spirit blade, is better wielded in a more elegant manner.

"Madame de Fer," the Queen says some days into their visit, over dinner with the three of them. It's the first time she's bothered to address her. "You neglected to mention, last time we met, that you are the Court Enchanter to the Orlesian Empire."

In an amusing turn of events, Hawke's Warden friend that she brought them to meet some weeks earlier is the Queen's father, banished to the Wardens after the Blight. Anora must take after her mother, because Vivienne cannot see any likeness to the Warden Logain in her face — except perhaps the eyes, which have the same sternness, and the hard lines of her brow.

"Listing qualifications can so easily become tiresome, Your Majesty," Vivienne replies. 

The Queen's gaze is pensive, studying her as if she's making plans, as if she doesn't realize that Vivienne is never the pawn in anyone's game. 

The truth, that her position in the Orlesian Court is somewhat tenuous at the moment, is more than she'd like to share. She could reclaim it now, if she wished, returning to Orlais with the apostate out of her way, utilizing her connection to the Inquisition in order to take back what is rightfully hers. But — the Circles shattered. The Chantry is in disarray. However politely it was done, she was cast aside for something new and exotic. 

The Empress lives and Bastien died: it seems a poor trade-off. 

Having finished her dinner, the Queen stands in her heavy cloak — spring is unseasonably chilly this year, but that is no excuse to wear such terribly drab colors. The dog, which has spent dinner lying next to the Queen's chair and drooling into a sad little puddle that would ruin anyone's appetite, stands with her. It gives Vivienne a rather discerning look, as if it remembers her, or at the very least the mud on her shoes.

Tilting its head, it growls lightly, uncanny, clever eyes never leaving the three guests in its home. Its coat is a dark, gleaming gray, a white patch staining its chest, and it's built like a fortress, leaving no doubt to what purpose its kind was bred. The Queen refers to the beast as the _Lady Hyacinth_ and presumably it outranks most of the Fereldan nobility. 

"I'm afraid she's rather protective at present," the Queen says, putting her hand on top of the dog's head. "She had a litter of puppies some weeks ago. Perhaps you would like to see them?"

It must be some sort of bizarre Ferelden politeness, parading the offspring of one's pets. Fereldans have always taken their war dogs very seriously. 

The puppies in question look like small, furry sausages. They smell rather terrible, their teeth indicate an inclination towards destruction, and of course both Commander Cullen and Josephine are besides themselves.

It should be obvious to anyone with eyes that the Commander is soft-hearted when it comes to animals. On occasion, when he is not barricaded in his office, Vivienne has found him in the stables, slipping apples to horses he has no intention of riding. It takes only moments for him to get to his knees, immediately assaulted by four or five brown puppies. With any luck, they will do irreparable damage to that abysmal coat of his.

Josephine fares no better, ending up with a very round miniature dog, the spitting image of its mother, cradled in her arms, all sense clearly flown.

Vivienne sighs, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. There is a little smile on the Queen's face, one that seems somewhat smug, and Vivienne realizes with a start that the Queen knows precisely what she's doing.

She must be used to people seeing only her pretty face and looking no further. And she is pretty, though she has clearly been out in the sun and her nose is red. It's late in the season, but spring has only just touched the trees and set them in bloom, and done the same to the Queen's freckles.

There is something altogether irritating about her prettiness.

Leaning towards her, shoulder brushing against Vivienne's, the Queen says, in a tone of voice that won't carry to the others, "Not fond of dogs? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. It's terribly Orlesian of you."

"Funny you should mention," Vivienne replies, watching her two companions make fools of themselves. "You play the game with the sort of skill one usually only sees in Val Royeaux."

The Queen crosses her arms, smile turning somewhat forced. "You must know that being compared to anything Orlesian is not a compliment in this country."

"That is hardly _my_ problem, darling."

 

*

 

Wardens are dangerous creatures. 

Any group holding so much power while claiming their absolute necessity ought to be cause for suspicion. Warden Loghain is no exception, even more so considering his history. 

What transpired in Ferelden during the Blight ten years previously are somewhat shrouded in mystery and gossip, but Vivienne has little doubt that Loghain is a man not to turn one's back on. His low opinion of Orlais is not a secret, though perhaps he's had cause to mellow in his years with the Wardens. They say he's spent the past ten years in Montsimmard, which Vivienne has always considered to be the crown of the Empire. 

They are joined, on the way to Adamant, by Warden Stroud, the first properly civilized Warden Vivienne has had the pleasure of meeting. It's a delight to speak Orlesian again, not the least since it seems to cause Warden Loghain no small amount of aggravation.

They fall into the Fade and return, and the less said about it the better. No one can keep their wits about them in the Fade. It inhabits the mind, steals one's control, and strips away all pretense. The Inquisitor returns to solid ground with a righteous fury; Vivienne is weary.

"You won't make it to Weisshaupt at the rate you're bleeding," she tells Loghain when she tracks him down some time later.

"How do you do that?" he asks where he sits, leaning against the wall of the fortress. "You must be dead on your feet, but you look like you've just been out on a pleasant stroll."

"Practice, darling."

"Sit down then, Your Imperial Fucking Radiance. Have a drink with a mere mortal."

He holds out a bottle, and she takes it, in spite of herself, sitting down on the hard stone floor next to him. The truth of his words tug all the heavier at her shoulders. Despite it all, while wandering a world she knew held nothing but nightmares and deceit, she couldn't stop herself from studying every moment in the corner of her eye, ever ripple and tremor, looking for someone lost. If a spirit took on Divine Justinia's form, who was to say there wouldn't be another bearing a familiar face?

What a fool's errand. Bastien is gone and he would have no reason to remain — she would never trust a spirit regardless, even one with his likeness. Grief is tiresome and lingering, weaving itself into her very bones. 

"Warden Stroud tasked me to heal your wounds," she says, handing the bottle back, "lest he contend with your whining the whole way to Weisshaupt."

Loghain makes a derisive noise low in his throat, shrugging. As was apparent to her on the way to Adamant, the two of them are clearly lovers, having their own shorthand and on occasion, an affectionate bickering. "You one of them healing mages, are you? Well, gimme your best, then. I've faced worse things than magic." He gives her a sideways look and a crooked smirk. "You saved my life in there."

"Did I? I'm sure it was unintentional."

The wound is in his side, and he unbuckles his tasset and breastplate with a wince, tugging up leather and linen to expose his ribs. He makes no face when she wipes the cloth she brought over his midsection, which is stained with crusted and fresh blood. She puts her hands where his skin is split and broken, a jagged wound caused by nightmare creatures. As she pulls on her magic, exhaustion stark and heavy, Vivienne is grateful she received no injuries in the Fade. She would not wish to carry such things over to this world. 

"Not too happy with the Wardens, is she?" Lohain says as she stitches magic into his wound. Vivienne does not need to look up to know he's referring to Cadash, who last she glanced in that direction was pacing the grounds some distance away, looking much like a thundercloud.

"Does she have reason to be?"

"Guess not. But I know a thing or two about making mistakes. Warden Clarel did not act out of malice."

"Malevolence is not a prerequisite to cause harm. Good intentions are little comfort to those who suffer the consequences of such things. But you need not worry. The Wardens will be treated fairly in the Inquisition."

"Suppose that's true. I had a favor to ask of her, but I know better than to ask one of an angry woman."

"As opposed to an angry man?"

"You sound like my daughter." He laughs, and stiffens in pain. "That's the favor I need. I've a letter. A private one, for the Queen of Ferelden. It's nothing secret or dangerous, but she's... well. Some family ties are best forgotten. Will you have it delivered safely?"

"The Inquisition has no ties to Ferelden. Nor do I."

"Well, despite the Orlesian frippery, I have faith in your capabilities."

She could easily say no, or turn the letter over to the Inquisitor when she's in less of a sour mood, but instead, she finds herself nodding. Maker save her, she might have actually have landed in the unenviable position of finding the Queen of Ferelden... _likable_. 

"I've not seen her since I passed the Joining," Loghain continues. "I'm sure you know the story. Anora knows the price of power, so I didn't think there was any reason to clear the air between us. But hearing that blasted song day in and day out... it makes you think about what you leave behind."

Wound patched up as well as she can manage under these conditions, Vivienne sits back, pouring water on her hands from her canteen to wash off the blood. "Do not mistake me for someone with an interest in the burdens on your conscience," she says, but she takes the letter. 

Having it delivered by trusted courier, she receives back some time later a note that says, plainly: _Thank you. A token of Ferelden's gratitude to those loyal to her._

The latter must refer to the drawing enclosed with her letter, a beautifully detailed sketch of the Queen's mabari. A waste of ink: the dog is as ugly on the page as it was in real life. Since the Queen is fully aware of Vivienne's feelings on the subject of dogs, she no doubt considers herself in possession of a sense of humor. 

A token from a Queen cannot be disposed of, but there is an easy solution to that: Commander Cullen would no doubt frame a drawing of the royal mabari, putting it on the wall of his decrepit little office and treasure it fondly.

Running her fingers over the sketch, it occurs to Vivienne that Anora probably painted it herself. It's unsigned and a good likeness, but not made by a painter. Sliding the slip of paper back into the envelope, Vivienne puts it away. There's no rush to hand it over, surely.

In the name of politeness, she sends back a vial from her personal stash, scented with the same flowers the dog is named for.

_Your dog smells, darling. Even a beast deserves the occasional bath._

 

*

 

"The Queen is unhappy about Caer Bronach," Josephine says the next time they travel to Denerim. 

She has asked Vivienne to accompany her again — presumably the puppy debacle means Cullen has outlived his usefulness. Luckily, Vivienne is not susceptible to such things.

"Of course. She must have preferred it overrun by bandits."

She says as much to the Queen over dinner. 

Spending days on end in negotiations is rather enough time spent with the Queen, it seems, because Josephine favors early nights while they're at the Palace. Vivienne would hardly deny her some matter of peace and quiet considering her usual schedule. Josephine is an exceptional hard worker, and _criminally_ under-appreciated. 

The Queen requests Vivienne's presence most nights, however, and even though the cuisine is as abysmal as one might imagine from a land of dogs, taking her evening meals alone with the Queen might even be considered stimulating.

"I do not oppose the Inquisition," Anora replies, "but you are growing into a force worth reckoning with. It makes me cautious. Especially considering your ties to Orlais. Can you blame me?"

"Our ties to Orlais," Vivienne says, "are circumstantial."

"Says the Orlesian Court Enchanter. If this is another Blight, we need Wardens, not an Inquisition."

"We have Wardens. Including, as you know, your father, who was a great aid to us."

Leaning back in her chair, taking a sip from her heavy red wine. "Mentioning him will win you no favors with me."

"Far be it for me to meddle in family business."

Anora's dog lies at her side, beset by a puppy who seems to be making a serious attempt at devouring one of her ears. The poor beast looks rather weary of the experience, which seems a reasonable reaction to having to spend any length of time with children of any species.

Another two puppies growl at each other under the table. Their appearance has not improved much since Vivienne's earlier visit, though they have doubled in size in all directions. Vivienne moves her feet away from them, tugging the hem of her robes up a little higher.

"You spent time with him," Anora says. A fair assumption since she is the one who passed on his letter, and clearly a question, though she doesn't phrase it as such.

"Regrettably, yes. He has an unfortunate habit of speaking his mind, even when he ought to keep his opinions to himself."

"Did you read his letter?"

"No."

"I thought integrity had no place in the game."

The Queen is either deliberately obtuse, or she is fishing for something in particular. It seems, sometimes, as if there's a question on the tip of her tongue, one that remains unasked. "Your ill-hidden slights grow tiresome," she says. "You mock the Orlesian ways when we both know that regardless of nation, anyone who wishes to hold onto power must play some version of the Grand Game. It's the way of the world."

It takes a moment, and then Anora — _laughs_. "Have a rest, Madame. You are more persistent than my dog."

One of the puppies growls at her feet, making a show of preparing for an attack. "I trust the country will reimburse me for any damage done to my clothes by mabari teeth. These boots were very expensive."

 

*

 

There is some commotion that night, which is explained when Vivienne only a little while later receives a knock on her door. The sun is yet to rise, the guard at her door is quite impatient, and it's all rather rude, that is, until she's brought to the Queen's private rooms finding bandages and a somewhat frantic guardsman attempting to dress the Queen's bleeding neck. 

The Queen herself is seated at her table, having a hearty breakfast.

"Some letters of mine were intercepted," Anora says. "I've been anticipating an attack."

There's a rather dead man on the floor — Orlesian if his clothes are anything to go by. Vivienne has fended off enough Bards in her life to know one when she sees one. A dagger protrudes from under his sternum, and his neck is marred by some very precisely placed teeth marks. "Efficiently handled," she remarks.

The Queen smiles, gesturing towards her dog. "A mabari is better than any guard. Orlesians always mock our beasts, until they've felt their bite."

"Has your dog learned to wield daggers too?"

"Fetch Hyacinth the finest cut of meat," Anora tells the guardsman. To Vivienne, she says, with a dismissive wave, "I learned how to use a bow and blades while I was still at my mother's knee."

"Prudent."

Once alone, the door safely closed behind the guardsman, Anora gives Vivienne a piercing look. "I called you here for a reason. As I'm sure you're aware, Ferelden's sovereignty remains a contested subject to a certain Orlesian contingent."

"I have great affection for Orlais — and do not misunderstand, I find Ferelden to be a barbaric, uncivilized mudhole. But I am a _mage_. That rather supersedes nations and borders."

Anora shrugs, proceeding to butter a slice of bread. "You may not be Orlesian, Madame Enchanter, but your ties to the Empire are indisputable. There is no reason to be coy about it. How close are you to the Empress?"

The guardsman did poor work on her neck, applying the bandage too loosely to do much good, blood already seeping through the cloth. The injury appears to be small, the bleeding too slow to pose a danger, but such incompetence ought to be reprimanded. Had the wound been deeper, the Queen's life might have been in the guardsman's inept hands.

"She plays the Game, as I do," Vivienne says. "I know her as well as she wants me to."

"I have heard you have her ear."

"I did once. I am not so sure I do still."

"Why?"

Vivienne sighs. There is no easy answer to that question, at least not one she cares to articulate. The simplest explanation seems easiest, even if it's only the tail end of the story. "I have been away from Orlais for some time," she says, "and with the Circles disbanded, my very existence becomes by its nature political."

"The way I understand it, you cannot sneeze in Orlais without it being political."

Her hair is loose and very long, falling over her thick robe, under which she wears only a nightgown. "It's awfully difficult getting blood out of Nevarran silk, Your Majesty. Allow me to heal your wound before you ruin your robe."

Anora hesitates only briefly. "By all means."

Pulling up a chair, Vivienne sits next to Anora, leaning forward to reach. She is tense as Vivienne brushes away her hair, bracing her fingers against her neck.

The cut isn't deep, but the position of it makes it precarious. Only a little more depth to it and the Queen would have bled out with haste. With no easily identified heir to the throne, the ensuing chaos would no doubt have been less than ideal.

Anora shudders as Vivienne draws on her magic. "The Inquisition has connections to the Empress too."

"A debt, more like. She owes the Inquisitor a great deal, and the Empress is not the sort of woman likely to forget."

"Then you will aid me in this." Spoken like a Queen, her words are a command, not a question. "There are things between the Empress and I that must be left in the past. I doubt she's behind this, but she seems disinclined to make any overt gestures of friendship or alliance. We have spent the past ten years dancing back and forth, getting nowhere."

"I have never known the Empress to speak much of Fereldan matters, but to my knowledge, she has always striven to avoid military conflict. Is there something else I should know?"

"I suppose you'd call it the Game. It was rather personal, though."

"The Game is always personal, when played the right way."

"Celene and all you blasted Orlesians will play the Game until we are all dead. Whether or not this is a Blight, we will achieve nothing as enemies. I want a lasting peace, and I am willing to put aside every personal, private, unforgivable slight she has caused me, but I cannot do it alone."

"There's no need to be dramatic, my dear."

The wound is healed and gone, leaving behind only a reddening of the skin that will fade in a day or two. Anora turns towards her and Vivienne lets her hands fall, only to find herself the recipient of a rather clumsy kiss.

"My apologies, Madame," she says hastily when they part, an embarrassed flush rising on her cheeks. "Would you mind terribly if I put the blame on your magic? It's a rather enchanting experience."

Not for the first time, Vivienne finds herself needing to privately rearrange her assessment of the Queen. Putting that aside for later assessment, she stands. "I will have a word with the Inquisitor when we return, Your Majesty. I'm sure something can be arranged."

 

*

 

"Thank the Maker, you're back," Cullen says, greeting them in the courtyard when they return from the Fallow Mire, looking rather pale under his furs. 

The reason for his pallor stands behind him in the shape of the Fereldan Queen, dressed in a shade of blue that perfectly accents her eyes, mabari at her feet. Not even the dog seems enough to reduce the Commander's discomfort.

"Josephine is in Val Royeaux," he says. "Maker knows where Leliana is. Her Majesty arrived two days ago. We've been — _eagerly_ — anticipating your return."

"Inquisitor," Anora says, giving her an appraising look. "It's quite the fortress you have on your hands."

"No one was using it."

"Curious, that. A fortress like this, visible for miles, yet no one seemed to know about it until you got here."

"I'm a dwarf, Your Majesty. Until someone stuck magic on my hand, I didn't use to go mountain climbing. I'll give you the grand tour as soon as I've washed the swamp out of my hair."

They are all in a rather urgent need of a bath, in fact. Blackwall stayed behind in the barn, where Master Dennett will no doubt make sure he gets the bog scrubbed off, lest the stink rubs off on his pristine stables. The demon child at some point winked out of existence; no doubt dirt doesn't stick to it anyway. 

The wind tugs on the Queen's hair, summer swelter turning her cheeks rosy. "There's mud on your stockings, Madame," she says.

There is mud on far more of her attire than simply her stockings, but Anora can no doubt see that for herself. "Perhaps your dog would like a sample," she says, striding past with her head held high. 

Behind her, Anora laughs.

 

*

 

In the evening, having spent a lengthy period of time in a bath, until there cannot be a trace left of the Fallow Mire on her skin, Vivienne brings a bottle of not-altogether-terrible wine and a wrapped-up druffalo bone from the kitchens to the better guest quarters.

"I'm sure you've suffered terribly with only Commander Cullen as your company," she says to Anora when she opens the door. "Allow me to make it up to you."

"I think the suffering was all his," Anora replies, stepping aside to allow Vivienne entrance. If she is surprised by the visit, she doesn't show it. "I'm disappointed I did not get to meet his associate, though."

Vivienne scoffs, handing the dog the packaged druffalo bone, certain that a war dog is clever enough to unwrap the gift on its own. "If you're referring to Sister Nightingale, she's a recluse. Her absence robbed you of nothing."

Josephine has done a commendable job making the guest rooms presentable. Of course, Skyhold being what it is, one cannot entirely remove the air of fortified stone. There are two chairs facing the fireplace, and Vivienne pours a goblet of wine for them each before sitting down.

"Curious the twists and turns life takes," Anora says, sitting down in the opposite chair. "I've met her before, during the Blight. She traipsed after the Hero of Ferelden, along with the Theirin bastard and the rest of her motley crew."

"How terribly precious. No wonder she doesn't speak about her past."

"Warden Amell and I had our disagreements, but she was of great assistance to me in the end. I make a point of toasting to her every year on the anniversary of her sacrifice."

They lapse into silence, Anora watching the fire, a solemn look on her face. The dancing light on her features turns her face into a painting come to life; the small twitch of her mouth, the slow way she blinks at the fire, as if she is seeing something far beyond it.

Some things must always be weighed and measured, losses and gains, the mathematical equation of wants and risks. She has always wanted more than what was convenient and this particular choice will win her no favors in Orlais. 

"Will the guards you have posted outside gossip terribly if I stay the night?" she wonders. The sudden flush on Anora's face soothes Vivienne's own nerves, because, well — not even she is entirely immune to such things. 

"No doubt," Anora mumbles, the pink on her cheeks turning an even deeper, utterly delightful, shade. "You always do seem to make an impression."

Hardly able to suppress a smirk, she crosses her legs, enjoying the thrill that runs down her back as she turns more fully in her chair towards Anora. "If you wish to be discrete, darling, there are others more suitable to take to your bed."

"There might be," she agrees, glancing at Vivienne, hand tight around her wine. "The Bannorn do like to gossip. And it would be altogether be rather complicated, wouldn't it? It... it might be complicated for you."

Vivienne laughs. "My dear, it is not the first time I have embarked on an _affaire de coeur_ that some considered ill-advised. I can take care of myself."

"Then I'm afraid you put me to shame. I've had little practice in these matters — outside of my marital bed, of course."

"Not to worry," Vivienne says, "you may leave the matter to me." Standing, she reaches for the laces of her robes, untying the knots holding them in place and loosening them with practiced ease. 

Anora's eyes are glued to the skin she reveals, bit by bit as she lets her robes unravel. She is still holding onto her goblet of wine, while her other hand is clenched on the chair's armrest. "You're very beautiful, Madame," she says, voice unsteady, eyes dark and unfocused.

Leaving her chemise on, Vivienne steps closer, putting her knee next to Anora's on the chair. "Oh, darling, I know."

She leans forward, over Anora, puts her hand on her jaw and kisses her, in the sort of way she may or may not have considered, idly, once or twice — lips and tongue and teeth, making her mouth utterly hers, until Anora breaks away, breath hard and hot against her. 

Even had she not confessed her lack of experience, the loneliness written in every line of her body makes it obvious. Well, Vivienne understands such things only too well. She would rather not dwell on how long it's been since someone warmed her bed. 

A light hand on her chest, and Anora pushes her back enough to ruck up her chemise, so she may kiss her hip, her stomach, and everywhere in between, running blunt nails down the back of Vivienne's thighs. "It seems I am overdressed," she says coyly when she leans back, hands coming up to fiddle with the hooks on her dress.

"Feel free to make yourself comfortable."

Fereldan fashion — a term she uses very loosely — is less restrictive than its superior Orlesian cousin. Anora's dress is sturdy and form-fitting, hugging her curves, but is not meant to be worn with a corset underneath it. Intricately embroidered in darker blue, the cut is simple and quite unlike anything worn by the Orlesian nobility. It does, however, unhook and open in the front, which has its upsides. 

"I was very fond of my husband," Anora says, a shudder running through her as Vivienne unfolds her gown. "We grew up together."

The layers of cloth turn into a maze, a delightful riddle to solve. Her nipples are visible through the thin shift, and when Vivienne puts a hand on her breast, Anora closes her eyes with a sigh. "I'm afraid Orlesian sentiment about the late king is not particularly favorable," Vivienne says as her other hand finds a path to the smooth, bare skin of her waist. 

"Well. I was a better king than he was," Anora says, without false modesty or hesitation, opening her legs wider on the chair. "He wasn't a terrible lover. I suppose he had a lot of practice. It wasn't his fault that my heart wasn't in it."

"Marriage is for alliances and inheritance. Love has nothing to do with it."

"In Orlais, perhaps. There were expectations. And the people like a love story. Well, they did until I failed to do my royal duty and produce an heir."

It seems a sore topic, by the tone of her voice. Vivienne considers herself lucky that she's only ever had cause to prevent such things from occurring. "Heirs," she says, sliding her hand past underthings, wet warmth welcoming her, "are better bred by someone else and handpicked for their suitability."

The shadow of a smile touches Anora's lips, be it from Vivienne's statement, or where she has put her hand. "The rules were always written for me to lose. I could marry again and perhaps provide the nation with a Theirin heir, in name if not in blood, but I decided long ago I won't take that risk. I have enough duties to add a prince-consort to the list. And I won't live in anyone's shadow again."

"I cannot imagine you in anyone's shadow, darling," she says, and Anora blushes sweetly again. What a barbaric country she resides in, having made her so unaccustomed to compliments. 

Hovering over Anora, her knee has begun to ache from her position, but that's a fair price to pay, and one she expects will yield a good return. Anora tugs her closer, hands restless on her shoulders as she kisses her, sliding lower on her chair, leaving room for Vivienne to come closer. 

"Touch me," she says — a rather pointless command since both of Vivienne's hands are occupied doing just that, but her meaning is clear.

Moving her hand lower, Vivienne heeds her request, deepening their kiss and sliding fingers inside; she did plan for this, after all, trimming her nails short and wearing robes that were easy to remove. The intimate grasp around her fingers and the restless stuttering of her hips makes Vivienne clench in sympathy, but she does rather pride herself on her ability to keep a cool head, even when the circumstances are dire. 

Rocking impatiently against her, Anora puts her hand over Vivienne's, eyes squeezing shut as she surges up and comes, gloriously, beautifully, utterly malleable in Vivienne's hands.

She remembers, then, the Empress's words from all those years ago: _a solitary rose among brambles_. 

Perhaps Celene simply sought to provide an unexpected answer when asked yet another tiresome question about the relations between Orlais and Ferelden. It won her no favors with the contingent that still considers Ferelden nothing but a rebellious part of Orlais, soon to be conquered once more.

Perhaps it amused her to so openly proclaim her support of a fellow female leader. Or perhaps she found Anora as compelling as Vivienne has come to. At any rate, Vivienne finds herself in full agreement of Celene's statement.

Retreating to the bed, Anora's hands fall onto her waist as their legs slot together, Vivienne finding herself somewhat mindless at the feel of her, every touch a delicious ache.

From her place by the fire, the dog stares at them, bone clearly forgotten. "Your dog, darling," Vivienne says, pulling herself away with some difficulty. "Must we do this with an audience?"

Disheveled and flushed, lips red and well-kissed, Anora looks up at her, hair haloed under her, most of it falling out of her braids. 

"Vivienne," she starts, and it must be the first time she's used her name, because it sounds foreign and new; unexpectedly precious. Putting her hand on Vivienne's inner thigh, she ever so slowly slides it upwards. "Ignore the dog."

 

*

 

"I appreciate you keeping the Queen company until I returned," Josephine says, pouring Vivienne a cup of tea. "Poor Cullen was a wreck."

"I'm sure he'll recover."

"She is formidable, don't you think? It's not difficult to understand how she kept the throne all these years."

"Darling, it's a nation of dogs and mud. I don't suppose she had much competition."

Josephine gives her a rather discerning look, which Vivienne elects to ignore.

"Did you know," Josephine says, "she found a half-grown orange kitten somewhere on the grounds and brought it to our meetings. Very sharp teeth and the most mischievous eyes. Apparently he likes silk." Josephine gestures at her dress, which upon closer inspection is speckled with orange cat fur. 

"Well. It would be foolish not to use all the tools at one's disposal."

"Indeed." Josephine's smile turn just the slightest bit smug.

Vivienne narrows her eyes. "My dear, is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"Not at all, Madame. I thought it obvious, especially for a master of the Game like yourself. The Queen has learned, unfortunately, that I cannot resist the thrall of the small and fluffy. Maker, the _puppies_. One cannot be held accountable for what happens in the presence of small animals."

"You would not be saying that if they'd left teeth marks in your favorite boots."

"The Queen, on the other hand," — Josephine takes a measured sip of her tea — "is ever so much more pleasant to negotiate with when you are around."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, darling."

"Of course not. I'm keeping the cat, obviously. Leliana already named him Prince Leopurr — for the Empress's late cousin. Perhaps," she adds belatedly, "it's for the best if we don't tell the Queen _or_ the Empress."

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, [Celene really did say that about Anora](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Anora). Very subtle.


End file.
